Holt the Presses
by RSteele82
Summary: (AU Series). Takes place before, during and after Season 4 Episode 3's Steele Blushing. The new chapter of Remington and Laura's relationship sputters forward. The appearance of Laura as centerfold in Bedside Babes leaves Remington confounded as does her duplicity surrounding her relationship with photographer Veenhoff. Laura takes an important step forward
1. Chapter 1: Progress

_**The Alternative Universe (AU) Series**_

 _ **Toss the Twilight Zone experience of Season 5 into the proverbial trash can. These stories pick up after Steele of Approval. While Bonds of Steele still exists, these stories look at Season 4 as most of the viewers saw it - Laura and Remington had crossed that line, imbuing that Season with the "Mr & Mrs Steele" feeling that most experienced. Way, way, way down the line, they will merge with the canon stories... because it is possible to do just that :)**_

 _ **For the best experience when reading my stories, they should be read in order as events from past stories, as well as Canon, will often be woven into future stories.**_

 _ **The order of the AU Series is as follows:**_

 _ **Steele Forsaken (Part 1 of 3 in the A Holt New Beginning Series)  
Steele Mending (Part 2 of 3 in the A Holt New Beginning Series)  
A Holt New Beginning (Part 3 of 3 in the A Holt New Beginning Series)  
Holt the Presses**_

 _ **As always, I do not own the characters, series or all that other bunk. I am simply borrowing all until I decide to give it back.**_

* * *

Chapter 1: Progress

Remington sat in his office, feet propped up on his desk, newspaper in hand, not seeing or understanding a word of what he was 'reading', his mind, instead, on his lovely partner. They'd returned home from London sixteen days ago, a day after their relationship had finally taken that turn from friends to lovers. For seventeen, glorious days, he'd at last known what it would be like to make love with Laura and it was so much more than even his fanciful imagination could have conceived. 'Absurdly passionate' that bloody twit Jeffries had once described her. Ha! Delightfully, wonderfully, enticingly passionate, _that_ is what _she_ was. Her passion not only complemented his own, but dared him to step up his game.

It boggled one's mind, it did. He'd once been a man pursued for his creativity, his generosity, his stamina, between the sheets. Never once had he made it less than clear: he was interested in no more than an encounter, with the unspoken promise that when he slipped out the door before dawn the woman with whom he'd shared a bed would be left feeling fully sated, wholly appreciated, beautiful even. As he'd suspected when he'd quite permanently assumed the mantle of Remington Steele, when he and Laura parted after a delicious tete-a-tete he'd be left already hungering for the next encounter, his thirst for her never fully slaked. Even as he sat here now, his body ached to find hers near. He daydreamed incessantly about how they would next make love: teasingly with much laughter shared; a game in which they each tried to one-up the other; fast and wild trying to tame their appetites for one another, at least for a moment; or, slow and achingly tender, leaving him breathless, his heart pounding in the aftermath.

Yet, if they didn't make love on an evening, he found himself surprisingly content with that as well. He and Laura had taken great care since their return to continue nurturing the friendship that had been the core of their relationship from almost the beginning. Truth-be-told, they didn't make love more than they did throughout the work week. Weeknights were about exploring their relationship. They dined, danced, talked, laughed, bantered, teased… kissed often and endlessly as they stretched out before the fire. For years he'd looked forward to those nights together, and his craving for them, for that connection, had only grown since his departure from LA the spring before. It was a bit heady to know that the woman you loved was also the closest friend you'd ever had.

The first weekend after their return from London, they'd spent the weekend at his place. Somehow, for both of them, it had seemed easier, perhaps because more so than anywhere else, his flat was where they'd first become friends. They'd both been nervous, of that there was no doubt. It had been a wholly new experience for Laura to arrive, overnight bag and small suitcase in hand, knowing that for the next two nights and days they would be, in essence, living together. Both had worried throughout the week about what might go wrong. Their worries had been completely unfounded. Falling to sleep wrapped around each other had felt simply… right; waking together cause for quiet contentment coupled with glancing touches. If asked, he would swear her body was made for him and him alone, folding perfectly into the curve of his body when they spooned and her head fitting splendidly beneath his shoulder when she slung her body partially across his as she slipped into sleep.

That first Saturday they'd taken a drive up the coast, where they'd walked hand-in-hand along one of the quieter stretches of beaches, simply enjoy one another's company. The jaunt was followed by dinner at Chez Rives, where Claude had pampered his favorite couple. Sunday morning, he'd prepare brunch for the two of them, and that afternoon they'd opted to while away the hours making love. After a wonderful dinner prepared by his own hands, true to her word, she'd picked up her bags and returned home.

He hadn't quite been prepared for the way he'd feel, watching her walk out the door. Forlorn? Bereft? Certainly, alone. That flat seemed to have lost the warmth that was present mere seconds before. Their nightly talk by phone had done little to quell the feeling. But on Monday morning, seeing her toothbrush next to his in the holder had… thrilled… him. It was, after all, proof that she'd been here for a time, as was the shampoo and crème rinse she'd left in his shower. Yet it was discovering one of her dresses still hanging in his closet that had brought a wide smile to his face, and left him whistling a happy little tune.

Then this last weekend. Had all gone as agreed, they were to spend the weekend at the loft, but it hadn't. Friday night he'd arrived, garment bag and overnight bag in hand. Once he'd deposited his belongings in her bedroom and bath, they'd lit out for the grocery store. His four month absence had guaranteed her larder would be bare of even the merest of staples. He'd loaded up the shopping cart with enough food to cook and store a good number of meals for her in the freezer. To that end, on Friday he'd prepared a lasagna that would feed a half dozen people easily, and placed four generous portions in the freezer for her to heat and eat on nights they spent apart. The following day, he'd create a variety of meals for her: spinach, cheese and green chile enchiladas, Fontina chicken and pasta, shrimp and broccoli brown rice paella and a garden soup. At least that had been the plan.

After dinner they'd had a quick interlude of the fast, teasing variety, amid a great deal of laughter. Wrapped in robes, they'd stretched out on her couch for a viewing of _Strangers on a Train_ (Farley Granger, Ruth Roman, Warner Bros., 1951). They hadn't made it three quarters of the way through the movie when wandering kisses had turned to heavy petting. They'd returned to her bedroom where they'd made love of the slow, achingly tender, breathtaking variety, denying the ultimate moment for as long as they could in their determination to light every nerve ending on fire first. When they'd at last shuddered together, each breathing the other's name, they'd fallen asleep with her splayed across his body.

Friday evening had been sheer perfection and when Remington had awakened mid-Saturday morning, he smiled with anticipation at spending the day alone in utter domesticity with Laura. But somehow, as he'd slept, those plans had been completely upended. He'd found her in the bathroom, already showered, hair and makeup done, and slipping on a pair of earrings. He eyed her outfit of dress pants and blouse suspiciously as it was a long way from the more casual attire she'd worn the weekend prior.

"Do we have plans I've forgotten?" he queried, his eyes connecting with hers in the bathroom mirror as he lifted her hair to brush his lips against her neck.

"Not us, me," she answered, eyes shifting away from him. "I'd completely forgotten Mother and Frances were due to arrive this morning." Her brows furrowed. Regret or guilt? He wasn't able to discern and that alone was enough to make the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. He backed up to lean against the door jamb.

"Oh?"

"While you were go- … in London, Donald received an offer from USC. A teaching position. He begins in January. So while he's wrapping things up his practice in Connecticut, Frances is coming out here to house hunt."

"That'll be nice for you, having your sister close." She shot him a sour look that was sincere enough.

"Easy for you to say," she mumbled under her breath. She blew out a puff of air. "I'm afraid our weekend is coming to an early end. I'll be tied up all day today and tomorrow."

"Understandable enough. It's family." She turned and pressed her lips to his, noting when he didn't wrap his arms around her and draw her near as he normally would. She swatted away the tidal wave of guilt with a firm hand. "Would you mind locking up when you leave?"

"Not at all." Out of habit, he tried to shove his hands in his pockets, only to recall he was lacking those dressed as he was. Instead, he only moved so much as to watch her walk to the door. She paused, then turned to look at him, regret painted across her face.

"I'm sorry. I'll call you tonight." He nodded his head, eyes focused intently on her but betraying nothing of his thoughts.

"I'll look forward to it." Letting out a soft sigh, she resisted the urge to shake her head. With one last look at him she opened the door and left, closing the door behind her.

* * *

As Laura pulled the Rabbit out of its parking space at the loft, her emotions were warring between guilt, regret and relief. She hadn't lied, at least not in full. Frances and Abigail _were_ in California looking for a house for the Piper family and, in fact, would be spending the day looking for the 'perfect home' in the suburban hamlet of Tarzana. Thankfully, after she'd sneered the word Tarzana, she hadn't been even invited along to house shop. All the better in her mind, as she was certain the days would have been filled with commentaries on her single status, 'catching a big one,' and reminders that the clock was continually ticking forward if she ever planned to have a family. Still, she had lied in part, hence the guilt. It was not exactly how she wanted to start out this new chapter of the relationship she and Remington were nurturing.

Then there was the phone call from Douglas Veenhoff in the early morning hours today. She barely knew the man. He'd taken her picture for the Stanford Alumni Register the day after she'd returned from London. Having realized the deadline for submission was two days away, she'd needed someone that could do the job quickly and he'd fit the bill. It hadn't even mattered to her that his studio was on the shadier side of town and the studio itself was rundown. In and out is what she'd wanted and what she'd gotten. Now the man was in trouble. His studio had been broken into, ransacked, and he'd been roughed up a bit in the process. It appeared there was a sleazier side to his business, boudoir photography, and the husband of a past client was none too happy that his wife's pictures, in dishabille at that, were forever memorialized on negatives somewhere in the photographer's files. Given that she, Laura Holt, had used Veenhoff's services, she'd decided at once there was absolutely no way she'd bring Remington in on this. She'd never hear the end of it. _Boudoir photography, ha!_ Hence, the less-than-honest quick escape this morning.

She sighed as she took the entrance ramp to the freeway. All week she'd looked forward to spending the weekend with Remington. The weekend prior had been idyllic. She'd arrived at his place nervous and afraid, after a week of worrying about everything that could go wrong. But nothing had. Their long-standing friendship the reason for the ease with which they'd settled in, she believed. A walk on the beach, dinner at Chez Rives, dinner made by Remington on Sunday evening. Hours and hours of making love. She couldn't recall ever being so comfortable, having so much fun, when in bed with a man. Certainly not with Marty in the backseat of his car or with her professor in the classroom, his office, his car. In both cases each rendezvous had been far more wham-bam-thank-you-ma'am occasions, slaking needs – or curiosity – then parting ways immediately after. And with Wilson? Staid, restrained, nearly always the same. He was good at what he did, but predictable, none the less. With Remington? She'd never talked so much, laughed so much… felt so much. They'd yet to make love the same way twice and he couldn't hide how thrilled he was with her passion. It was frightening, really, how absolutely… right… it felt, each time they made love, no matter the manner.

And after they made love? A shiver passed down her spine at just thought. It was completely foreign territory to her. Wonderfully, comforting… completely foreign territory. There had been no "afterwards" with Marty and the professor. As for Wilson? Once he'd found his… nirvana… whether she had or not, she'd receive a perfunctory kiss on the forehead before he'd climbed out of the bed to discard the condom in the bathroom, where he'd immediately shower. The expediency of the acts made her wonder, on her more insecure days, if he was trying to rid himself of her scent on his body. Even now, the thought made her shake her head and feel a little sick to her stomach. When Wilson would emerge from the bathroom, he'd look at her expectantly. So she, too, would rise to shower. By the time she returned to the bedroom, the sheets would be in the wash, fresh ones adorning the bed, and they would settle in, each on their own side.

With her Mr. Steele, it was an entirely new world. Damp, sweaty sheets held no concern to him. Sweaty, sticky bodies? He thought nothing of it. His only concern was keeping her close after they found bliss in one another. His hands stroked and soothed endlessly, his lips sought out hers, her skin. He made no attempt to hide that wanted her close. _No, it's almost as though he_ _ **needs**_ _me close in the way he buries his face in my neck or shoulder, his hand in my hair. It's as though he still can't believe it is me with him there. Can I blame him? I can hardly believe it myself_ , she admitted silently to herself.

Being with him, making love with him, was nothing like she'd expected and more than her wildest of dreams. It feels like… _Coming home_ , she confessed in the inner recesses of her mind. The thought was exhilarating… and utterly terrifying. There had been none of the first time awkwardness with Remington, there hadn't even been a chance for that. They'd been so lost in exploring every inch of one another's bodies that when he finally merged his body with hers, the rhythm had been instinctive. She was sure they had their friendship and partnership to thank for that, in large part. For years they'd been able to read one another, to act without words, and it had simply fed into this next stage of their relationship.

Relationship… She tossed that thought out of her mind before it could begin. Had he made love like this with the myriad of other woman that had passed through his life? Another thought she couldn't contend with, so that, too, was banished to the corners of her mind. She was fairly sure he hadn't felt the need to keep _those_ women close, but it was in his nature to… A wave of her hand, as she flicked away that thought as well. He still hadn't said _those_ words, but she was certain she'd seen them in his eyes, time and time again, during, in the moments after, when he woke with her in his arms. _Why won't the man just say them?_ she demanded to know of no one in particular but her own insecure heart. If he would only do so, then so could she. But she wouldn't risk putting those words out there for them to be left hanging in thin air, unreturned.

Yet time and again, he'd painted her body with them. _So what gives?_ She growled in frustration.

Words said or unsaid, she still regretted fervently that she was not with him now and likely would not see him again over the weekend.

Yet, a small part of her was relieved, as well. When she'd awakened to the minor cramping which she knew would tidal wave into outright misery, she'd grimaced at the thought of sharing what lay ahead with him. Comfortable was one thing. Him knowing her body that intimately was quite another thing all together. She'd mentally bopped herself on the head for not realizing beforehand what this weekend held in store for her so that she could make her excuses in advance.

"Thank you, Douglas Veenhoof," she muttered under her breath.

The man was a pig. But pig or not he was in trouble… and inadvertently he'd provided her the escape route she'd needed. Stashing him in the Melrose apartments, she questioned him thoroughly then returned to the scene of the proverbial crime. She'd searched the man's studio from top to bottom, putting the place back in some semblance order, before she called it a night. It had been nearly nine o'clock before she returned to the loft.

Latching the loft door behind her, she headed straight for the refrigerator. It had been a long day and the only food that had been involved was the greasy, fast food slop that Veenhoff had pestered her to bring by after she'd finished at his studio. The time she'd spent in his studio had left her feeling dirty, both because of the filth in his office area where she'd spent hours going through negatives and because of the content of those negatives. Why any woman would degrade herself in such a manner was beyond her. Sure, she understood, in theory, the concept of some sexy pictures for a husband, fiancé… boyfriend. But those could be done at least clothed enough that a pig like Veenhoof wouldn't spend time doing God only knows what as those pictures were developed. To boot, the Midol she'd taken hadn't helped her cramping in the least and a pounding headache, par for the course, had taken root hours ago.

Food, hot shower, heating pad and bed. Those were the only things on her mind by the time she arrived home. Swinging open the freezer door out of habit, more than anything else, she extracted a container of soup from it and tossed it in the microwave to heat. Stripping down on her way to the bathroom, she let out a relieved sigh as the hot water pounded her aching back, soothing the cramps a little. Ten minutes later, her meager hot water heater petering out, she left the confines of the shower, dried off and wrapped a towel around body and hair. Returning to the kitchen, she poured soup into bowl and was about to move to the living room when a thought struck.

Her fingers thrummed against the kitchen counter, then almost reluctantly she opened the freezer door again. She scrunched her nose, recognizing that her Mr. Steele had apparently spend a goodly part of the day in her loft, making and freezing meals for her. He'd done such things routinely before… his trip. But all those meals had been long gone before they'd returned home. With a shake of her head and sigh of contrition, she turned to pick up the receiver of the phone. _I'm always underestimating you, aren't I, Mr. Steele?_ she thought in silence as she listened to the phone ring on the other end.

"Steele here," Remington answered the phone in that way of his.

"Hi, it's me." She could hear him settling into his seat on the couch as he turned down the volume on the television.

"Survived the day, did you?" She nodded as she swallowed a spoonful of the delicious soup he'd created.

"I did, although I'd rather have spent it with you," she answered honestly.

"Nice to know. Don't worry yourself over it. I understand you've never been forthright about our… personal relationship with Abigail and Frances. My coming along would have been awkward in that regard." Laura scrunched her face up. He was nailing her to the wall with great proficiency even unaware he was doing so.

"I'm sorry. It's just th—"

"No apologies necessary, Laura. As I said, I understand, just as I understood your need to cut short our weekend due to family obligations. I'm sure we'll make up for it next weekend, eh?" She sighed heavily into the phone. Funny how his understanding felt like a heaping portion of guilt.

"Thank you for the food. You didn't have to," she tried instead.

"Of course I did. I happen to take great pleasure in making certain your lovely body is nourished. Contrary to what you seem to believe, one cannot survive on yogurt and fruit alone. Whatever did you do before I came along?" he teased, trying to keep the moment light.

"One might wonder," she said aloud, quite unintentionally, then let the statement stand. God knew she'd pondered the question often enough in his four-month absence.

"Is everything alright? You don't sound quite yourself." His concern was evident in his voice. Even as she rubbed at her temples she smiled.

"Just tired and a bit of a headache. I'll be fine with a little sleep." He frowned on his end of the line. The strain in her voice would suggest more than just 'a bit.'

"If you'd like company, I can help you with that." He'd meant it to sound like a neutral offer, but he, himself, heard the hope threading his words. She closed her eyes. The urge to agree was strong, almost overwhelming. But there were still those awkward admissions that would have to be made, not to mention she'd just have to leave him again first thing in the morning.

"Really, I'll be fine. I just wanted," _you here,_ she thought, but instead said, "to call and say goodnight. I'll call you tomorrow, okay?"

"Mmmmm," he hummed his agreement, disappointed though he was. "Sleep well, Miss Holt."

"You too, Mr. Steele."

Remington hung up the phone with a good deal of regret. Laura Holt was a difficult woman to get through to, more often than not, especially when she was determined to hide something, as she was now. While he'd been preparing the meals to store in her freezer that afternoon, her phone had rung. The answering machine had picked up on the third ring.

"Laura, this is your Mother," Abigail's voice had carried across the loft from the speakers on the machine. "Frances believes she may have found the perfect house in Tarzana. She'd like your opinion of the neighborhood however, before putting in an offer. We'll be at the house from one until two tomorrow afternoon. We expect to see you then. The address is…"

Remington stood stock still in the kitchen. So his duplicitous partner wasn't with her mother and sister, although at least she hadn't lied about them being in town as well. Still, it begged the question of what she was about. She'd bolted from the loft that morning as though it were on fire. He'd searched his mind for anything he might have said or done out of line, anything that may have her suddenly backing away, as she had all too often in the past and came up empty. Yet, there had to be a reason she'd made her hasty exit, why she'd lied to him. He couldn't, however, fathom what that might be.

Now, crossing his arms, he sank back into his seat on the couch. Another night alone, then. Not that he wasn't used to them. God knew he'd had nearly three years of learning how to be just that as he'd waited for Laura to come around. It wasn't the fact he was alone he found irritating, but the fact there was no need for it. Releasing a disgruntled puff of air, he picked up the remote and turned up the volume on the television, before stretching out his legs and resting feet crossed at the ankles on the coffee table. While he considered _Spellbound (_ Ingrid Bergman, Gregory Peck, Selznick International, 1945) a fairly good film in his opinion on most days, tonight his mind continued to wander back to his intoxicating and irritating partner. When the closing credits rolled at ten-fifty-five he'd not only not watched a bit of the film, he'd come to no conclusion on what had gotten into Laura this time. Turning off the television, he tossed the remote on the coffee table and retired to his room.

A hot shower did little to ease his annoyance. Dragging on a pair of pajamas and slinging on his robe, he returned to the living room to shut down the flat for the evening when the doorbell rang, catching him by surprise. Frowning, he walked to the door and swung it open partway, leaning around it to look into the hall.

"Laura!" He ushered her in. "Come in. Come in. What are you doing out wandering around this time of night?"

Laura stood in the entry, shifting from foot to foot uncomfortably, looking anywhere but at Remington. The difficult part should have been the decision to come here, but it turned out that had been the easy part. She'd laid in her bed, staring at her ceiling, much as she had every night after he'd… taken his trip. Maybe it was because she'd lied to him or maybe it was because she was still holding so much back from him, but she'd felt so far… removed from him… that sleep alluded her and the headache continued to build. It had been easy enough to throw a coat over her nightgown, to get in the Rabbit and drive over here – a little bit of the old impulsive Laura in control. But now? Her shoulders slumped and she let out a deep breath, resting her gaze somewhere around his earlobe.

His brows furrowed and reaching for her hand, he tugged her towards the couch. Sitting down, a firm pull on her arm brought her down to sit next to him. Studying her face, he noted the line between her brows and the strain on the outside corner of her eyes.

"Head still bothering you?" This time her eyes met his and she nodded. Shifting on the couch, he drew her to sit between his legs, back pressed to his chest. His fingers found her temples and began to soothe. She let out another long sigh.

"I didn't come here for you to relieve my headache…"

"I didn't imagine you had, although now that you're here, it seems foolish not to let me help you, eh?" She relaxed somewhat against him at his words and closed her eyes, focusing on the movement of his fingers.

"I feel ridiculous," she finally groused. Remington's hands paused then continued to massage her temples.

"Oh, why is that?" She blew out a frustrated breath.

"I'm twenty-nine years old. A grown woman! Yet here I am tramping across town in the middle of the night because I miss my… my… I missed you. It's silly, it's childish, it's—"

"Progress," he interrupted. She pulled away and turned to look at him, astonishment written on her face.

"Progress?! I feel like I've regressed a decade and a half!" A bolt of pain shot through her head in response to raising her voice. Grimacing, she grabbed at her temples. Gentle hands eased her back against his chest again and reclaimed their spot at her temples.

"Yes, _progress_. For you not only to admit you wished to be here, with me, but to act on it? I'd say it's remarkable progress and I can't begin to express what it means to me." He paused, then made an admission of his own. "I missed you as well." His hands left her temples to stroke down the sleeves of her coat. "Perhaps you might remove this so I can work on your lovely shoulders?" Her groan surprised him. "Ah, is it something I said?"

"No," she elongated the single syllable word into several. She drew away from him the second time in as many minutes. Rubbing her arms briskly she turned to face him, but like earlier, her eyes landed somewhere south of his throat. "I didn't come here to sleep with you, Mr. St-… Remington," she corrected, still struggling to use the name consistently. She frowned, as that hadn't come out correctly. "I mean I did… I do… want to sleep with you… sleep here with you…" she stumbled. "But only sleep. What I'm trying to say is… Oh, hell… I'm out of commission for the next few days." She covered her face with both hands, as a flush spread from her toes to the roots of her hair. "Back to feeling like a teenager," she grumbled under her breath.

Now, it was Remington's turn to frown, trying to decipher precisely what she meant as she'd babbled along. His brows raised and his eyes widened as he put it all together. He could honestly say he'd never found himself in this position before.

"You mean you have—"

"Yes!" she interrupted before he spelled it out letter by letter. He nodded, then needing a moment to think gave a little pull on her coat again. This time she stood and removed the garment before sitting back down. The sleeveless, shapeless baby doll nightgown she wore was a predictably prim little get up, but it made this man want to run his hands up underneath of it to explore what was hidden beneath. Tamping down his reaction, he waited until she settled again, then placed his hands chastely on her shoulders.

"So, tell me. What should I expect during these times?" he finally asked.

"If you mean sex, I'm not…I don't…" she stumbled again, mortified by the conversation.

"Not sex, Laura," he interrupted. "The headache. Is this part of it?"

"It is, although it's not usually this bad," she confirmed.

"What else?" She blew out a puff of air, not wanting to have _this_ conversation.

"Cramping, exhaustion, general misery the first day. After that, I'm fine." She forced the words past her lips. "And before you ask, normally three days, on occasion four. But I'm sure there are things we can do to assuage your…needs." She shook her head, saying a small prayer of Thanksgiving he couldn't see her face which she as sure was red enough by now to resemble a sunburn.

"That's not why I asked. Give me more credit than that!" he answered, sounding genuinely affronted. "I don't need anything 'assuaged'. I simply want to understand, so I can make things easier _for you_ during such times." She laid her hand on top of his and gave it a gentle squeeze.

"I'm sorry," she told him sincerely. "There's not much to do. I normally keep to myself, curl up with a heating pad and wallow in my misery."

"Mmm," he hummed. "And right now, beyond the headache, how do you feel?"

"Same as normal, but I'll be fine by morning." He nodded behind her.

"Up you get then." She frowned, but did as directed. When he stood, he slipped an arm around her and led her to the bedroom. "Take that oddly tempting little gown you have off and stretch out on your stomach. I'll be right with you."

Pulling the gown over her head and laying down on the bed, Laura smiled when she saw Remington emerge from the bathroom with a bottle of lotion in hand. Setting the bottle on the bedside table, his hands worked their magic, starting at her scalp, then working their way down from neck, to shoulders, to back. His sensitive fingers identified each knotted muscle, relaxing it before moving on. Laura hummed when she felt the tight muscles in her lower back give way, the relief immediate. The touch of his lips against her bare shoulder told her he was done. She scooted over as he climbed into the bed.

"Lose the shirt, Mr. Steele," she directed. With a soft chuckle, he did as bade, then with a raised brow, put the shirt in her outstretched hand. He grinned as she slipped it on, fastening only a single button. In short order, they were settled on their sides, his body spooned around hers beneath sheet and comforter. "Thank you," she told him quietly.

"You're welcome. And thank you," he returned while using a single finger under chin to turn her head to look at him as he propped himself on an elbow.

"For what?"

"For coming here this evening. For _wanting_ to be here this evening. It means more to me than you know." Leaning down, he kissed her, showing her through the gentle teasing of her lips exactly what it had meant.

Reclining again, she grasped his hand in hers and tangling their fingers together, tucked their joined hands between her breasts.

"Goodnight, Remington," she said quietly in the darkened room.

"Goodnight, Laura," he said just as quietly, bussing her on the top of her head.

She discovered as she slept that Remington's warm body pressed tightly against hers was the best heating pad one could have.


	2. Chapter 2: Duplicity

Chapter 2: Duplicity

When Remington woke the next morning, Laura was gone and the sheets cool to his touch. Rolling to his back, he grumbled to himself. It wasn't how he'd hoped to wake this morning but it was, as they say, what it was. He didn't see her again on Sunday, although they spoke by phone in the evening before they both turned in for the night. The next day at the office, she proved equally elusive, having provided neither he nor Mildred any information on her schedule that day other than she was 'cleaning up some loose ends,' before strolling out of the office. He couldn't help but think those little hairs on the back of his neck had been right. His partner was up to something, but the question was what. Yet, he was confident that like most of her secretive shenanigans, they'd reveal themselves in due time. All he had to do was wait it out. To that end, he was tucked up in his office, newspaper open and feet propped up on his desk, presumably reading but actually swept up in the memories of the weekend past.

His reverie was interrupted by two sharp raps on his door, before it swung open. Mildred and two tall, suit clad men following in her wake entered his inner sanctum before being given permission to do so. The older of the two men flashed a badge, followed by the younger doing precisely the same as Remington slowly removed his feet from his desk, setting aside his paper as he sat up.

"Colby," the older man announced.

"Rhodes," the younger.

"FBI," provided Mildred.

Remington's lips part in surprise, his eyes showing his worry. His mind raced. _Bloody hell, something's at last caught up to me,_ he thought to himself, trying to keep the panic at bay. Then his heart sank _. Laura's going to have my head on a platter for this. Why did I believe the glory of these last weeks would last?_ It took him a long second to realize Colby had tossed something before him on his desk.

He picked up the magazine in his hands, looking from it, to Colby, panic turning to confusion.

"Bedside Babes?" he asked in a mystified tone.

"Page 46," Colby provided. "Babe of the month?" Looking from the agent to the magazine, Remington opened it and thumbed through the pages until he found the one he'd been directed to. His eyes widened and his brain stuttered with disbelief, although it still managed to send a signal to his hands to slap the magazine closed.

"Good Lord," he muttered, unable to process what he'd just seen. Laura? _His Laura_? Laura Holt? It simply didn't calculate.

"You know her then," Rhodes observed. Opening the magazine again, Remington glanced at the picture again. It certainly appeared to be her. He'd know those brown eyes… those freckles that sprinkled her face… those lips he'd spent long hours kissing… well, anywhere.

"Well, obviously not as well as I thought." The words slipped past his lips without intention. He couldn't seem to put the brakes on his whirling thoughts.

"Would you mind telling us what Laura Holt, private detective, is doing in a publication of that of that sort?" Colby demanded to know...

ABCABCABCABABCABC

Remington left the office shortly after the FBI departed, pausing only to ring up Fred and direct him to get to the office at once. Riding the lift down to the lobby alone, he raked a hand through his hair as he thought about that piece of… of… of… pornography he'd shoved into his desk drawer before leaving. _Undercover, my arse. On top of the covers, more like._ He forced himself to stop _that_ particular train of thought. _'Uninhibited' and 'impulsive' are one thing. Engaging in such a thing as…that… quite another. What in the bloody hell's gotten into the woman?_ Since Laura had hared off on her own that morning, it seemed it would be up to him to ferret out what was happening on his own.

Opening the door to the limo, he climbed in then directed Fred to Veenhoff's address.

ABCABCABCABCABCABC

A fat lip and no answers later, Remington passed through the doors to the Agency, just in time to cross paths with Laura. Doing a one-eighty, he followed close on her heels, his eyes skimming her form, nearly taking the door in his face for his troubles. Biding his time, he found the perfect entry to invite himself along on her afternoon journeys. She was far less than thrilled, but he didn't particularly care if her nose was pushed slightly out of joint at the prospect of him joining her. Veenhoff's sleazy little bedroom set up and the centerfold of Laura were enough for him to vow to carry forward until he had the answers he felt entitled to.

Laura, in her all together, gracing the centerfold… He'd been so shocked he'd had to look twice, three, _four_ times to confirm it was indeed her face looking back at him. As they stepped into the limousine he was still trying to understand what had gotten into the woman. The woman he'd once openly described as cultivated, refined… rational. The woman posed in that piece of trash was the antithesis of all three.

Turning his head when Fred pulled away from the curb, he watched through the rear window as a brown Ford sedan dropped in behind the limo, Colby and Rhodes hot on their tail. Facing forward again, he blotted at his lip before crossing his arms and addressing her.

"This… friend of yours. What does he do?"

"He's a photographer." He nodded his head and feigned surprise.

"Oh. For a newspaper?" She nervously fingered her earring, refusing to look at him.

"No, no," she answered with nervous reluctance. "He has his own studio. Does… portraits, mostly."

"Ah, I see. Graduations, weddings, kids, dogs," he gesticulated with his hand, "that sort of thing."

"Mmmmm," she hummed, weighing her answer as he looked skeptically over her shoulder at her while she gestured nervously with her hand, "More or less," she agreed, unconvincingly. He turned his head away and grasped the door for a second, regrouping, unable to believe she wouldn't come clean when he had given her every opportunity to do just that. Returning his gaze to her, he offered her yet another opportunity.

"Has he… uh… ever taken _your_ photograph?"

"Mine?" She glanced at him then away several times, laughing nervously. "No. Me? You know how camera shy I am."

"Ah, yes. A veritable shrinking violet," he replied, each word dripping with sarcasm, which she failed to note. In truth, she would do or say whatever it took to get him off this particular train of thought. She watched as Remington turned to look out the rear window again, confirming Colby and Rhodes were still following them "Uh… this friend of yours wouldn't be mixed up in anything… illegitimate… would he?" Laura looked at him, not attempting to hide her aggravation and frustration.

"Your imagination never stops, does it?"

"At the moment, it's working overtime," he answered frankly.

"All right. A couple of days ago, someone broke into Veenhoff's Studio, roughed him up and demanded he turn over his files," she explained.

"That's his name. Veenhoff?"

"Yes," she confirmed, her nod as brisk as her words. "Luckily, he was interrupted by Veenhoff's next appointment. I managed to get a line on a man who fits his description. If it's who I think it is…" her brows lifted expectantly, "…we may have a mini Watergate on our hands."

"How so?"

"Ever heard of Ford Stevens?" Searching his mind, he came up blank.

"No."

"He's a candidate for state Senate. And very likely the man I'm after." On safe ground, she was her cool, confident, professional self.

"What's his connection with Veenhoff?"

"When I find out, I'll let you know." After looking out the rear window again, he faced front with a frown on his face. Eyeing him questioningly, she turned to look out the window as well, finding nothing amiss.

"Is there something you're not telling me?"

"Whatever gave you that idea?" he asked, vexed. Turning to look at her, he gave her one final chance to come clean. Brows drawn he asked, "Is there something you're not telling me?"

"Whatever gave you that idea?" she retorted, perplexed. Facing away from one another, Remington turned to peruse her slim form, trying to assimilate the woman beside him with the woman in the magazine. Feeling his gaze on her this time, she turned to look at him, only for him to quickly shift to look out the window.

Silence stretched thick within the confines of the limo, his irritation with her by now significant enough that he didn't offer an argument when she suggested she enter Ford Stevens' campaign headquarters on her own. Pulling a toothpick from his pocket, he toyed with it while he considered his exasperating partner.

He'd wager the entirety of a year's wages that this "friend" was the reason she'd bailed on their weekend together. The message from Abigail had made it abundantly apparent she'd not spent the entirety of the weekend house hunting with them as she claimed she'd be doing. He'd given her the opportunity to own up to that falsehood and she hadn't.

Rather like this latest encounter on the way to Steven's campaign headquarters. It irritated him beyond measure that he'd given her multiple opportunities and yet she refused to own up to the truth of _how_ she knew the degenerate Veenhoff. Colby and Rhodes had made it patently clear that Veenhoff was the one who'd taken the picture of Laura which appeared in the smut rag they'd presented him with. Yet, his deceptive partner wouldn't admit to the association, instead passing the loathsome man off as a friend in trouble.

He was beginning to understand how she felt when he'd deceived her about his true purpose for going to Cannes… for the Hoskin's sting… the Whitewood scam… the Five Nudes debacle. He found the shoe she'd always hoped would be found on the other foot fit a bit snug. Even more so, this was _Laura._ Scams, schemes, deceptions, ploys… they were not necessarily welcomed, but most assuredly expected of him by her. At least they _were_ , as he'd been wary of pulling any fast ones of late given they not only inevitably blew up in his face ever since Laura had entered his life, but were sure to incur a price he'd never been willing to pay yet had had to anyway… repeatedly.

But this was _Laura._ Straight laced, prim and proper, inhibited, honest to a fault about almost everything except her feelings… and Westfield, should one choose to dwell on that crisis which he did not. Posing nude. _Nude._ _For a smut magazine._ Where derelicts and degenerates would see her, fantasize about her… obtain their releases while thinking about her.

The very thought of _that_ left him wishing fervently to plant his fist firmly in the gut of the photographer who had made it possible in the first place.

He'd always been territorial where Laura was concerned, worried someone would come along and knock down those walls of hers and sweep her away before he, himself, was ever truly given the chance to do just that. Truth be told, even as only partners and friends, in his mind she'd been his since the moment they'd locked eyes across what was now his office. Their convoluted romance during the years since had only made his claim to her all the stronger. Now that they'd added the roles of lovers and committed to partners and friends? In his view, that delectable little body of hers was for his eyes only… for his _everything_ only. He felt no need to apologize for his possessiveness either, certain if that proverbial shoe was on the other foot she'd feel quite the same way.

It was time to come up with a plan to get Laura to confess… and the more she had to squirm, the better.

But first things first: picking up the phone in the limo he dialed a number.

"Monroe? Mick, here…"

(TBC)


	3. Chapter 3: Discoveries

Chapter 3: Discoveries

Laura frowned as she ascended the three flights of stairs to her loft, Remington following close on her heels. He was playing a game, but as of yet she'd been unable to identify precisely _what_ game. The line he'd delivered at Ford Stevens's campaign headquarters kept resonating through her mind.

* * *

" _ **Isn't it a wonderful feeling, Laura, being on the same wavelength. It's almost as though we can read each other's thoughts without actually having to articulate a thing."**_

* * *

 _What?!_

And the look he'd given her while he was speaking… the conversation in the limo and the pointed glances on the way there. _What the hell is he up to?_ her mind kept silently screaming. The problem was, she didn't have time to put the effort into figuring it out. Not right now. Her primary concern was getting Veenhoff's issues put to bed before her Mr. Steele put two and two together and came up with five. The last thing she needed was for him to find out about Veenhoff's sideline, and worse, that Veenhoff had taken _her_ picture, no matter how legitimate that setting had been. No, Remington would be convinced she'd partaken of the kinky offerings, then that mind of his would go to work: when… and for whom. _That's the last thing I need!_ she thought to herself, she slid open the door to the loft.

* * *

As they descended the stairs from the loft, Remington was not sure what he should be more appalled by: That Laura had allowed that slovenly pig to see her naked – _To take pictures of her in the altogether no less!_ he mentally added; or that she'd done so for the express purpose of having them published in that piece of pornography. That she'd blatantly lied, again, had him seeing red.

* * *

" _ **Miss Holt tells me the two of you have known each other for quite some time."**_

" _ **Oh, well, I guess about three wee—"**_

" _ **Years…" Laura interjected.**_

* * *

 _Three weeks? Since we've come home from London, then, committed to one another no less._ The muscle in his jaw clenched in irritation. He held himself quiet as he seated himself in the Rabbit, then, elbow resting on door, turned to look out the window, closing himself off from her.

He was not the only one mired down by their thoughts. As Laura preceded Remington down the stairs and to the parking lot, she was considering any variety of ways she'd like to wring Veenhoff's neck. Remington hadn't missed Veenhoff's reference to their acquaintance being only three weeks in duration and, far worse, had easily discerned Veenhoff's specialty was boudoir photography. The man's mind had already jumped to the obvious conclusion.

* * *

" _ **With any luck, this case will be wrapped up by tonight."**_

" _ **Thank Heavens for that. The next think you know, he'll be wanting to take**_ _ **your**_ _ **picture."**_

* * *

She'd thought he'd learned his lesson during the Casellas' case three years prior, about jumping to conclusions. During that period, he'd assumed her sculptor instructor was her lover based on a very brief conversation between Giovanni and him. In fact, the looks her Mr. Steele was giving her now, his commentaries, echoed those of days past.

* * *

" _ **So, we're dealing here with a man trapped at the very apex of a lover's triangle. On one side, true love. On the other side a hollow commitment, fueled by little more than cheap, carnal lust."**_

* * *

So, as she'd predicted, her faithless partner had put two and two together and come up with five. Well, when this case was over, she'd provide him a math lesson he wouldn't soon forget.

* * *

Conversation between Laura's loft and Ford Stevens's house in Freemont Place was limited, she put out with him, he put out with her. Neither of them could predict the turn of events which would occur once they met with Stevens. Forced into a corner and having no choice but to confess to his altercation with Veenhoff, Stevens had reluctantly retrieved a copy of Bedside Babes from where he'd concealed it in a credenza, directing Laura – who had snatched the magazine out of Stevens's hand before Remington could 'enjoy' it – to turn to page twenty-seven. Remington peered over Laura's shoulder to glimpse the photograph they'd been directed to, both of their brows raising.

"You're wife?" Remington inquired, understanding all too well why Stevens would be disturbed.

"No. Lucille Bascombe, our next-door neighbor. She and Emily… that's my wife …went down to this boudoir photographer," he said the last two words with some disgust, "and had all these damned pictures taken. Hell, when she first showed them to me, I was flattered." He turned to Remington, hoping for some commiseration. "In fact, it was kind of a turn on." Remington smiled at the man while Laura tried to discern his reaction. "We've been married a long time. Then I saw this."

"Are you saying Douglas Veenhoff took this picture?" Laura asked.

" _Yes._ That's why I wanted his files. Can you imagine what it would do to my campaign if my wife ended up in a smut magazine like this?" Standing a step behind Laura, Remington leveled his gazed upon her, wondering if she'd considered what turning up in those pages could do to her own career. She'd spent the last six years trying to pry the respect of clients from them. One might think she'd consider that she'd just reduced herself to the 'just flesh' status she'd once lamented. Flesh committed to him, no less, a sticking point he simply could not get past.

"Well, I don't think there's much chance of that, Mr. Stevens," Laura consoled, using her infallible logic as her guide. "Your wife would have to sign a release before Veenhoff could sell her pictures." Remington's eyes narrowed on her in annoyance. _First-hand knowledge and all that, eh, Miss Holt?_

All heads turned as Emily Stevens entered the room, calmly disagreeing with Laura's assessment. "Lucille didn't sign any release." Remington's eyes flicked from Emily Stevens to Laura, his brows raising in surprise as he returned his gaze to the statuesque woman.

"Are you certain?" Remington asked. _More likely a story contrived by the Bascomb woman to explain away her own misdeeds once found out,_ he noted to himself.

"Of course. Don't be absurd. Those pictures were meant for her husband's eyes only." Remington nodded, while humming disbelievingly. "As were mine." He nodded again as his attention was drawn to Laura who had reopened the magazine and was thumbing through it, this time without the careful skimming of the bottom of each page for the number.

"I can see your predicament, Mrs. Stevens, but the question is-" Laura's eyes widened, her hands began to shake and she lost all train of thought as her eyes fell on her own face peering back at her. _What… Oh my god… Ohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygod,_ she thought as her brain went on tilt. She convinced she was going to have a stroke any moment.

Remington peered over her shoulder and noted what had caught her attention. He gave a smug little purse to his lips, before straightening his face for the benefit of the Stevenses. Laura's surprise was evident but in his pique, after being blindsided with the magazine himself then lied to repeatedly by the woman next to him, he concluded, _Expected to appear in a later edition perhaps, Miss Holt?_

"What's the question?" Stevens asked after the incomplete query was left hanging in the air at length. Remington's eyes flickered over at Laura's face, before he instinctively took the ball and ran with it. Tweaking her a little more just happened to be a fringe benefit.

"The question is, what are we going do about Veenhoff and this…" he grabbed the magazine out of Laura's hands, out of nothing more than perverse pleasure " _…trash_." Panic cloyed at her. _Ohmygodohmygodohmygod… He can't see this of all people._ Desperately she grabbed for the magazine, pulling it from his hands then clutching it tightly. Snatching it back, while pretending to address Stevens, Remington tightened the screws further. "It's already on the local newsstands." He battled back the smile that threatened as Laura snatched at the magazine again, struggling to wrest it from his hand. When he finally relinquished it, he turned and leveled his gaze on her, not even attempting to hide his displeasure. "Probably hundreds throughout the city," he emphasized, a bit of the Irish brogue of his childhood coloring the words in his annoyance.

"Thousands across the country," Stevens provided helpfully, only making Laura's panic grow further. The idea of that magazine, _of her very revealing photograph,_ being on newsstands across the country made Remington's blood boil. He turned and glared at his associate as she attempted to speak, unable to catch her breath.

"Mr. Stevens," she managed breathily, "if we promise to deliver your wife's negatives to you, will you leave Veenhoff alone?"

"Absolutely," Stevens agreed readily.

"We'll get right on it," Steele assured them, following Laura who was trying to make a hasty exit. "And don't worry about Veenhoff. I have a feeling he's going to get what's coming to him." _You're secret's out Pandora's box, Miss Holt._

* * *

The Rabbit was devoid of conversation for the first half of the trip back to Laura's loft. As Remington seethed that his fallacious lover continued to refuse to fess up to her recent antics, said lover sat with hand held to mouth when it wasn't being raked through her hair, alternating between flushing with mortification and turning green from being so sickened by the picture. It was in remembering Ford Stevens's final remark, the Remington broke the silence as his annoyance with the woman next to him finally bubbled over.

"Provocative gown? Presidential primary? Where was I?" _And for whom were you wearing the gown, certainly not I_ , he stewed.

"Mind on the case, Mr. Steele," Laura admonished, unable to deal with his acrimony over something more than a year past. She had bigger – much bigger – concerns in the here and now. "We may have gotten Veenhoff off the hook with Stevens, but he's not off the hook with me."

"Obviously, he neglected to tell you he was peddling his pictures on the side." _Another chance to come clean, Miss Holt. Will you take it?_

"I'm going to wring his fat, greasy neck!" she swore aloud. _Clearly not. Let's see if you fully thought through precisely what would happen with those pictures when they appeared in that piece of smut,_ he mused.

"Oh, Laura, you're taking this awfully personally," not noticing as Laura's eyes glistened and she rubbed at nose and mouth trying to keep the tears of humiliation at bay. "After all, it's not as though you were between those pages. The object of desire for every slobbering pervert… every sex-starved Marine… every convict on death row who wishes to kind of-" with his hand he indicated precisely what task the men who purchased that… that… pornography used it to assist with. She felt the bile rise in the back of her throat, and seriously wondered if she'd need to pull over. It took every ounce of her self-control to force it back down.

"Mr. Steele, _please_!" Laura pleaded, unable to hear another word, let alone be the audience of another demonstration, "I've got a headache!"

He raised his hands, conceding to her request, even though he failed to note as she rapidly blinked wet eyes and ran a hand across her face again. "All right. All right."

 _What am I going to do?_ she cried out in her mind as she realized everything she had worked so hard for – the respect, the recognition that she was far more than just flesh – could be destroyed because of one man's actions.

* * *

Remington sat on the floor of Veenhoff's studio, legs crossed in front of him, chin in hand, trying to figure out why he had a sinking feeling in the pit of the stomach that he might find himself once more sleeping alone.

He was thoroughly baffled. What had just happened? It was all there in full color: Laura looking up at him from the centerfold of that filth. What in the bloody hell did she mean it wasn't her? Those eyes, those lips, those delightful freckles smattering face and neck, the hair that felt like silk between his fingers… he'd memorized each and every detail of them years ago. And there they each were, on that page. He had no idea when everything had suddenly veered right, but suspected it was right the time they'd heard the click of the gun behind them being cocked. Not three minutes ago, he'd been living comfortably in the knowledge that he had _every_ right to be offended the woman with whom he shared both a professional and personal life had not only been a participant in pornography, but had been lying to him throughout the day and evening as it related to her relationship with the pig Veenhoff.

Yet, here he now sat, with a sign hanging about his neck etched with one simple word: pervert.

As though that wasn't bad enough, Laura had also realized rather quickly after their confrontation in the studio, that he, himself, had been nothing short of duplicitous throughout the day. One by one she'd ticked off his offenses. He'd been to Veenhoff's studio earlier in the day and had not shared that information with her. Check. He'd failed to notify her the FBI has made an appearance at the Agency that morning. Check, check. He'd known all along the picture of her… that was not a picture of her?... was in that manual for the immoral. Check, check, check.

 _Bloody buggering hell,_ he morosely mulled. _The evidence was right there, in living color no less. What else was I to believe, especially after her continual duplicity? Any jury would have convicted!_

Why, then, did he feel as if he were about the one to be sentenced?


	4. Chapter 4: Mea Culpa

Chapter 4: Mea Culpa

Laura charged out of the studio, her heels clicking on the pavement as she plowed towards the Rabbit. Throwing herself into the front seat, only one thought replayed itself repeatedly in her mind. _That… that… that… mannnnnnnn._ She wasn't sure which offense made her angrier: That he'd failed, _again_ , to come to her with details as important as the FBI appearing in the Agency that morning and her _alleged_ picture published within the pages of a 'nudie magazine'; or that he believe her even capable of doing such a thing in the first place, although she suspected it was the latter. Did he not remember the conversation they'd once had about how being viewed as 'just flesh' had affected her? She could still recall to this day his response to her monologue, the words he'd said having meant so much _to her._

* * *

" _ **No one's ever going to treat you as just flesh. Flesh, yes. But never…**_ _ **just**_ _ **flesh."**_

* * *

How, then, could he ever believe that she'd reduce herself to only that?

And, if she was fully honest with herself, the fact he'd seen the picture and hadn't known, _immediately_ , it was not her body displayed on those two pages? It hurt… deeply, very deeply. Apparently, he'd not been as invested when they'd made love as she'd believed him to be. Her breasts were not as large, her stomach not as rounded, her hips not as wide, her thighs not as thick, and her legs not as long as the woman's body to which her face had been attached. As much time as Remington spend coveting and attending to the freckles that sprinkled her neck, shoulders, upper chest and even part of her breasts, it hadn't occurred to him the body he'd seen lacked a single one of those marks.

That she could close her eyes right here, right now, and describe every nuance of his body in exacting detail made it all the worse. His smooth shoulders; his long, leanly muscled arms; how the hair on his chest was thick from finely defined collarbones to the bottom of his pectorals where it very briefly thinned to only a line for a scant inch and a half, before once more spreading across nearly the entirety of his abdomen; his slim legs which were deceivingly well toned with lean muscle like his arms; his flat abdomen where the muscles would ripple underneath his skin at her touch; the slim hips around which she'd wrap her legs so often when they made love. At only a glance she would have been able to confirm or refute if it was his body on display in a similar manner.

Yet, he'd not known it wasn't _her_ body there on those pages. Bracing her elbows on the steering wheel, she dropped her head into her hands, which is how Remington found her when he arrived at the car several minutes later. He watched her cautiously as he slipped into the passenger seat. She immediately lifted her head out of her hands and turned the key in the ignition, pulling the Rabbit out on to the street. He didn't miss the rapid blinking of her eyes before she managed to put the stoically placid mask on that she'd hidden behind for years.

It seemed he had a far more urgent matter to contend with than her anger, he realized with no small amount of guilt.

"Look, Laura, I'd like to explain—"

"No explanations necessary, Mr. Steele," she cut him off, coolly. "Let's just keep our minds on the case."

"Laura…"

"The case, Mr. Steele," she repeated coolly.

He swiped a hand over his face, before turning to look out the passenger side of the car. There were no ands, if, or buts about it. He'd lost a lot of hard fought for ground with his Miss Holt today.

* * *

Laura and Remington had wrapped up the case in the early hours of Tuesday morning. The Fitzgerald's were safe and fairly healthy, although Michael was invited to stay a couple nights in the hospital after removal of the bullet from his leg. Colby and Rhodes, the fraudulent FBI agents were also extended an invitation: to remain long-term occupants of the LA County jail, until they were tried on charges of attempted murder, conspiracy to commit murder, assault and battery, among a myriad of other charges before the Feds threw their own book at them. It seemed the Federal Government did not take kindly to a couple of thugs for the mob impersonating Federal agents.

As for Laura and Remington? Still wearing the clothes they'd started the day prior in, and he more than a bit soggy after his dip in the water while corralling Colby, she decreed they should go to their individual homes, shower, catch a few hours of sleep, then rendezvous back at the office mid-day. Mildred was directed to reschedule the two appointments they'd had scheduled for the morning. It had occurred to Remington to invite Laura to return to his flat with him given she had suitable business attire hanging in his bedroom closet. The idea of a catching a few winks with her tucked up against him while they slept held an immense appeal. Yet, one look at her shuttered eyes and cool façade let him know it was pointless to ask. Regretfully, he simply bid her adieu when she dropped him off in front of the Rossmore, before trudging upstairs to his flat, wondering what particular form of sincere groveling would be required to fix the mess he'd made of things.

As for Laura, she'd taken a quick shower before pulling a t-shirt over her head and crawling between her sheets. Her brief bout of sleep was filled with dreams in which clients and officers with the LAPD held _Bedside Babes_ in hand as they leered at her while making numerous, lecherous suggestions, then cackling loudly when she professed it was not her among those folds. Shaking the dreams off, she sat up and raked her fingers through her hair while questioning what avenues she had to mitigate the potential damages. Unwilling to return to the dreams, she slipped out of her bed and wrapped herself protectively in her robe before adjourning to the kitchen to make coffee.

She had no idea how long she'd been curled up in the corner of her couch, coffee in hand, when the phone rang. Automatically, she rose to answer it.

"Hello?"

"Miss Holt?" Mildred inquired from where she sat behind her desk.

Remington, hip propped on the corner of said desk, listened avidly to the conversation taking place. Granted, he'd arrived just after the lunch hour, earlier than the 'mid-day' Laura had specified, but when she'd still not appeared in the office some two and half hours later, he'd become concerned and had enlisted Mildred's aid. Given the Auburn's status was still 'stolen,' she'd figured a couple of brownie points couldn't hurt and had readily agreed to make the call.

"Ms. Pitts has been rescheduled for tomorrow morning but Mr. Montgomery asked if we could squeeze him in at three-thirty. When should we expect you?"

"Montgomery is interested in a security system for his store, correct?"

"That's right," Mildred confirmed.

"Has Mr. Steele come in yet?" she inquired. Mildred's eyes slanted towards the man himself.

"Arrived a couple hours ago with bells on."

"Have him take the meeting. He and I can caucus in the morning," Laura directed, drawing a frown of concern from Mildred.

"You're not coming in?" Remington's brows drew together at that piece of information.

"No. I've worked the Veenhoff matter all weekend. I'm going to take the rest of the day. Mr. Steele is more than capable of handling the Montgomery security issues."

"Alright. I'll see you in the morning," Mildred answered hesitantly.

"Bright and early," Laura assured her, before hanging up the phone. Dumping her cold coffee in the sink, she poured herself a new cup, then returned to her former position on the couch turning her attention from damage control to Remington, determined to try and see things from his perspective.

The phony FBI agents had showed up at the Agency the morning prior. Their credentials must have been impressive enough in order to fool both Remington and Mildred. At some point during that meeting, he'd been presented with 'her' picture in _Bedside Babes_. How much, for how long had he looked at it? She couldn't even begin to speculate on that. The phony agents had linked the digitally altered picture of herself to Veenhoff's studio, so that was where Remington had gone.

The last part did not surprise her at all. Since nearly the outset of their association, in his mind he'd claimed her as his, on some level had needed to. There was a short period of time when she wondered if that was simply fanciful imaginings on her part. But the truth was in the way he constantly sought to touch her, as if to assure himself she was there, to feel a connection between them; it was in the jealousy he'd never been able to hide, starting only a few weeks in with Creighton Phillips. Even as ill-defined as their relationship still was, now that they'd crossed the line into the bedroom, and were, in fact, committed to one another, that claim would be all the stronger. To have her on display for whatever perverted Tom, Dick or Larry out there would have made the man insane. Which is precisely what he'd have to be to believe she'd _ever_ pose for a skin magazine.

Truth be told, she was… insulted... Remington would even _think_ there was _any_ circumstance under which she'd participate in something like boudoir photography. It was not only degrading, it was… pointless. Why present on paper what could be so much more alluringly be delivered in the flesh? She'd much prefer to slip into something enticing, perhaps even naughty, and be there to reap the benefits while relieving, hands on so to speak, any… tensions… that might arise. It bothered her to no end that he might believe the only way she'd indulge any fantasies he might have via absentee ballot. After all the years of holding him at bay, did he see her as… a coward… afraid to engage in a little fantasy play, up close and personal?

She puffed out a frustrated breath when a knock sounded at the door. She needed to work through the last few days, but it seemed destined she'd be continually interrupted. Setting her half-full cup of coffee on the coffee table, she stood to answer the summons. With a firm tug, the door slid open, revealing a delivery man holding a tasteful arrangement of purple hyacinths. She shook her head and gave a little snort of amusement. The flower of apologies and hopes for forgiveness. One guess as to who they were from. Tipping the delivery man, she closed the door, then set the arrangement on her piano before plucking the card from its pick.

 _Mea cupla. Please join me this evening for dinner and a healthy serving of humble pie. ~ R_

With a breathy laugh and a shake of her head, she glanced at the clock in the kitchen. She couldn't help but wonder just how sorry he was for his assumptions and what lengths he'd be willing to go to in order to atone. Pursing her lips and lifting her eyes to the ceiling, she allowed various scenarios traipse through her mind. After a minute lost in thought, a sly little smile spread slowly across her face. The evening might prove educational, after all.


	5. Chapter 5: Lessons Learned

_**A/N: This chapter contains NC-17 content. If you are under eighteen or uncomfortable with the subject manner, please continue on to Chapter 6 and the conclusion of Holt the Presses.**_

* * *

Chapter 5: Lessons Learned

Remington glanced at his watch for the tenth time in half the number of minutes. Five after seven. Laura hadn't called either to accept or decline. Still, he'd held out hope that she'd give him the opportunity to explain himself, to apologize. He'd not noted a time on the invitation given every time they dined together throughout the work week they did so, without exception, at seven. He tossed back the remainder of the wine he'd been nursing while preparing the meal then refilled the glass. _Dinner for one, it appears,_ he thought to himself, with no little regret.

He'd made carnard au vin rouge, in hopes of stirring some sentimentality that might weaken her resolve if she was determined to say those words once again: 'Maybe we should take some time…'. Five months ago, those words had taken him to his knees. The knife that had twisted in his gut had been more painful than the spikes that would gore him a few months later. He couldn't imagine there was anything more excruciating at the time. He'd been wrong. If she said the words again? Now that he knew what it was like to have her, to fall asleep with her pressed to his side, to wake wrapped around her, he was fairly certain those words would leave him trying to piece himself back together, as she'd always feared he'd do to her.

Carrying his wine out to the terrace, he leaned against the railing there, looking blindly out over the city scape before him. So was resigned was he to the fact that Laura had washed her hands of him, that he started when the doorbell rang. Entering the house, he crossed the living room to swing open the front door, peering around it to look in the hallway.

"Laura!" he greeted, his surprise reflected in both his voice and face. Her brows drew together, puzzled.

"You did invite me over for dinner tonight, didn't you?" He swung open the door all the way, indicating with a hand for her to enter.

"I did indeed. I'd just thought… well, you hadn't arrived…" he stumbled, suddenly feeling like a schoolboy instead of the man of elan he was.

"Traffic," she shrugged the excuse, dropping her clutch on the credenza as she entered. In truth, she'd purposely arrived nearly twenty minutes late to make him squirm. A little discomfiture was the least of what he'd earned given the events of the day prior. She deftly avoided the kiss he'd attempted to brush against her cheek, leaving him nervously rubbing at his face, as she'd intended. Her back to him, she quirked a smug little smile, before something on the living room floor caught her eyes. She walked across the room and stared at the two tall stacks of _Bedside Babes_.

"What's all this?" she asked, waving her hand towards the piles. He crossed the room, drawing near to her but remaining several steps away.

"A bit of peace of mind, for the both of us, perhaps?" He shoved his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels.

"When? Where? How?" she babbled, then grimaced at herself.

"Yesterday. Every establishment that sells the… filth… in Los Angeles and Tarzana, just in case. I hired some people to assist in the matter." When she snapped around her head to look at him, he held up his hands. "Not at the Agency's expense, but my own, and no, I didn't provide the reason why." She returned her attention to the pile.

"This must have cost a fortune… the time… the magazines…" She turned to look at him again.

"Well worth it, should you ask me. If the men have done their job properly, and it's my understanding they did just that, there's not another copy to be purchased in LA." Her features softened as she stepped to him, to press her lips against his.

"Thank you," she told him with quiet sincerity.

"It wasn't completely selfless, Laura. I've an investment of my own right in wanting every last one of the lot incinerated," he pointed out.

"Didn't you say dinner was part of the evening," she asked, neatly sidestepping what he was implying, at least for now.

"I did," he confirmed. "Canard au vin rouge, to be precise." A smile lifted her lips, understanding without explanation the reason for that particular menu.

"Then let's enjoy dinner, and we'll deal with," she flicked her hand towards the magazines, "all of this later." He understood she meant any further discussion of the events the prior day would be set aside until after their meal, and was grateful to her for that.

They enjoyed their dinner, keeping the conversation focused on either business or other lighthearted matters, glancing touches frequent throughout the meal. After the meal was finished, they fell into a routine born of years of dining together in his place or hers: washing, drying and putting away dishes, and cleaning up the kitchen. Eventually, they settled beside the fire, he stretching out on one side of the piles, she sitting, glasses of wine in hand. Taking a sip of his wine, his picked up the first magazine and held it out to her.

"Given the situation, I believe the honor of the first pitch, so to speak, should go to you," he nodded towards the magazine. She took the magazine from him and tossed it into the flames, smiling as fire took hold of the pages.

"Even more satisfying than throwing a strike," she grinned at him. Returning her smile, he picked up the next and sent it sailing into the blaze.

"Quite satisfying," he agreed, tipping his wine glass towards her in a mock salute. Conversation started and sputtered to a halt several times as they made their way through the first pile. As she lifted a magazine off the top of the second stack, she glanced at him, and decided for both their sakes it was time to get the show on the road.

"I suppose you're wondering why I went to Veenhoff in the first place," Laura offered as she tossed another copy of Bedside Babes into the fire, opening up the conversation he'd been waiting for throughout the evening. Tossing the magazine into the fire after hers, he kept his eyes fastened on her.

"The thought had crossed my mind," he acknowledged. She lifted another copy from the stack and tossed it, he following suit.

"It all started innocently enough. I needed a portrait for the alumni journal, and-"

"Of course you did," he interjected. Hoping to insert some humor into a matter that could grow serious very quickly, he gave her a look that clearly said he doubted her veracity while infusing his words with dollop of sarcasm. Her eyes flashed angrily at him.

"You see, that's what I mean. That's exactly why I didn't come to you about this in the first place," she accused, her voice rising. He tried not to cringe, hoping for an opening to again attempt to lighten the mood. "I needed a portrait. He took a portrait. I didn't know anything about Veenhoff's boudoir business until he came to me with this problem." As she tossed another magazine into the fire, he opened one to page forty-six.

"The alumni journal, eh?" he asked, amused at the thought of a bunch of old codgers seeing this instead, at least now that he knew it wasn't actually her they would be admiring.

"Perfectly legitimate," she pointed out in defense of herself, gesticulating with her hands.

"Oh, the alumni are going to be delighted with this, aren't they?" he laughed, flashing a pair of pearly whites at her while feigning amusement.

She tried. God knows she tried to squelch the smile and frown instead. It was, after all, not a laughing matter. But for an instant, she remembered how only weeks before she hadn't known if she would ever again have a chance to be irritated by the man in front of her. Her heart won out, briefly, kicking her brain to the curb and the smile lit her face. It had nothing to do with his glib remarks and everything to do with him being _here_ to make them at all. Taking the magazine from his hands, she tossed it in the fire. Then before Remington knew what was happening, Laura crossed the distance between them on her hands and knees. He grunted softly, as her lips fastened to his and in one smooth movement, their lips never losing contact, she propelled him to his back before she stretched her petite frame out over his long lean one. Automatically, his arms encircled her, as her arms stretched over his shoulders, so that her fingers could play in the silk of his hair. He hummed appreciatively, unsure what had gotten into her, but unwilling to ask because he was so bloody grateful, as always, for anything that ended with her in his arms. He hummed again when she nipped his bottom lip, then flicked her tongue against the spot, daring him to open to her, then moaned low in his throat as her tongue explored his mouth when he did. He dared to stroke a hand down her back and over her tantalizing bottom. Abruptly, she ended the kiss and sat up, straddling him, considering him at length. He smacked his lips still able to taste her on them.

Swept up in the fact he was here, in their kiss, Laura had nearly forgotten she had a point to make that evening, a lesson for her to teach, for him to learn. Her original plan strolled out the door, as a new one took form. Her hands slid up his chest, then one-by-one slipped the buttons of his shirt free. Remington looked up at her grinning and arched a brow at her. _Perhaps the flowers and the little bonfire was enough to earn my way back in her good graces then, eh?_ he thought to himself. She eased off of him, and kneeled by his side.

"Lose the jacket and the shirt, Mr. Steele," she directed. Only too happy to oblige, he sat up and stripped off both articles of clothing, tossing them onto the couch behind them. "This would work better, at least for now, if you'd sit up." He willing propped his back against the side of the couch as directed, flicking his tongue against his lips eagerly, as she settled on his lap.

"I have to wonder, given the number of times we've gone to bed together now, how it is that you didn't _immediately_ know it wasn't me – at least from neck down – in that picture, Mr. Steele," she told him, and watched with some satisfaction as the smile left his face and he eyed her warily. _It seems I was right the first time around. She's going to hold my feet to the fire for this blunder,_ he realized.

"It occurs to me, you need an example, a vivid example, of what I mean," she continued. "A demonstration, so to speak, of why I would've never made a similar mistake should the positions have been reversed." His eyes widened, a bit of panic settling into their depths, as she spoke. "I see you grasp my meaning."

"Uh, Laura—" he began, with every intent of explaining to her that he'd not examined, at length, that centerfold until just a few moments before in her presence. She placed a finger on his lips to silence him while shaking her head.

"No talking, Mr. Steele, at least not yet. First things first," she directed. After taking a deep breath and letting it out, she closed her eyes and lay her hands along his neck.

"Your shoulders were once more narrow," her fingers whispered over the breadth of them as she spoke. "There was a time, the area from the base of your neck to start of your arm was only slightly wider than the distance of my thumb to pinkie with my fingers closed. Now I have to spread my fingers apart to span that same area." Without opening her eyes she demonstrated. "You have a few dark freckles here," her lips caressed mid-right shoulder, "and here," she pressed her lips on his shoulder next to his neck on the left. Remington shifted himself beneath her in response to her lips against his skin, then silently cursed himself as she settled more firmly against him, the apex of her thighs cradling his rapidly hardening shaft. No one had ever been able to set his body ablaze with only the simplest of touches, as Laura Holt could. His hands stroked her waist, then gripped it firmly trying to draw her to him. Her eyes flew open at the action.

" _No touching_ , Remington, until I say," she instructed, removing his hands from her waist and laying them at the side of his legs.

"Lau-ra," he drew out her name in objection.

" _No touching,"_ she repeated firmly, then closed her eyes again, focusing her mind on his body.

"You're so slim, I doubt anyone realizes how cut the muscles are in your upper arms." Her hands smoothed over the referenced area. "When relaxed they appear to be only well-toned. But when you're working," she leaned forward to lay her lips next to his ear, to stir his ardor as well as his angst, she whispered, "or when you're on top of me, moving within me," her lips lifted in a smile when a tremor passed through his body at her words, "the muscles are so well-defined."

"Laura," he managed before she shook her head, never opening her eyes.

"Not yet," she answered, knowing it was a request that he be allowed to touch her in kind. Her hands moved down the length of his arm until she reached his hands. She lifted one, holding it, as the fingers of her other hand explored its surface. "Your hands. Your fingers are long, piano player's fingers as my grandmother would say, your hands themselves large. Large enough they could be intimidating. But they're not. They're graceful, eloquent, expressive… and amazingly _gentle._ " She opened her eyes to press lips to palm, keeping her eyes with his. "Your hands are one of my favorite parts of you." She lay it back down, reclosing her eyes, moving her small hands back to rest against his shoulders.

"Your chest, like your shoulders, has broadened over the years." She laughed quietly, dimples flashing, yet never opening her eyes. "You realized years ago how attractive I find your chest. You'd didn't think I knew how you'd tease me with the small glimpses of it, but I did." Her hands stroked over his shoulders then stilled. "The hair starts right beneath your clavicles," she drew a finger beneath the right, "and the base of your throat." She suckled at the bare skin right above the area. Hips lifted upwards unconsciously, grinding his engorged, clothes covered shaft against her, as he groaned aloud.

"Oh god, Laura," he lifted his hands to grasp her hips. Her hands swept them away before they could make contact.

" _No touching,"_ she reminded him, before she resumed. "The hair on your chest is thickest here," her finger traced a path from sternum to waist, leaving him panting, "and here," she flattened a palm over the lower portion of his pectorals. "Except, right here," her fingers flicked over the nubbins of his nipples, "allowing me to do this…" Leaning forward, she drew a nipple firmly into her mouth and suckled. His back arched, a hand lifting from the floor before he forced it back down, his chest rising and falling rapidly now.

"Laura, I didn't see—" he tried explain, becoming desperate. Each touch of her hands, her lips, her mouth against his skin was pure heaven; his inability to touch her, to feel her skin beneath his hands utter hell.

"We'll get to the explanations in a little while," she told him huskily. She was not unaffected herself, her skin flushed, her breaths coming closer and closer together. She stood up next to him, and held out a hand. With no little trepidation, he took to his legs, unsure how long they would hold him upright should she continue.

"No hands, Remington," she told him before closing her eyes. Her nails scraped through the hair on his chest before one paused and reversed track, stroking an area on the right side of his chest. "You have a scar right here. Not thick, not long, but it looks like someone must have stitched the wound." She gave her shoulders a shrug. "Maybe you'll tell me about it one day. Then again, maybe you won't."

Remington leaned his head back and looked at the ceiling. To the best of his knowledge, she was the first woman to ever realize the scar was there. In recognizing this, the words she'd spoken not long before suddenly registered in his mind. He might not be able to use his hands, but she'd opened the door to other things. Hands fisted at his sides, trying to keep his emotions at bay, he leaned down and kissed her, gently, slowly, reveling in the feel of her lips under his, her taste.

"Laura, please," he whispered against her lips.

"Not yet," she answered, never opening her eyes. Touching her lips to his, she returned to the task at hand.

"The hair on your chest stops right below your pecs. Only for an inch or two, except this line," she again traced it from neck to waist, before placing both hands on his chest, palms flat, her fingers burying themselves in his silky hair. She relished the feeling for long seconds as he watched the play of emotions across her face. He cherished each moment when she would lose herself in touching him. Too soon, her hands moved upwards, resting on the place where she'd lay her head when they fell asleep. She never spoke a word, but he watched as she nibbled at her lower lip in remembrance. When she pressed her lips against the spot, he would have bet all that he had she could feel his heart hammering in his chest, the action overwhelmed him so. Then her hands were on the move again as she spoke.

"Your hair starts here again," her fingers raked along his abdomen, "nearly the entire width of your stomach, but not quite, concealing the muscles that contract under my fingers when I touch you as I'm touching you now."

He wasn't sure how he kept on his feet as he watched Laura lower herself to kneel before him. Without ever opening her eyes, she leaned forward and without error her lips zeroed in on, then pressed against each of the angry red marks left by the fence that had punctured his abdomen. She moved on without saying a word, her hands undoing his belt, then unlatching his pants and sliding down the zipper. She removed shoes and socks without a word, before pulling down his pants then briefs. He kicked the clothing aside, his eyes never leaving her, standing bare before her now. She lifted her head up before opening her eyes, then waited until blue eyes fueled by emotion and desire met her limpid brown ones.

"Dimples," she uttered the single word, her hands reached behind him to glance over them. "Smooth… muscular. You have a beautiful bum, Mr. Steele, not that I haven't know that for years." She tossed him an impish grin, caressing his cheeks briefly before moving her hands to his hips. "Slim hips and legs. You flinch, whenever I do this," she stroked her hands over his thighs. "They're the only part of your body you're insecure about. I can't imagine why." She pressed her lips to each thigh in turn. "All long, lean muscle." He took a deep breath and let it out. She wasn't wrong. He'd always felt his legs were too skinny. To know she didn't find anything about them lacking, only increased his aching need to take her in his arms.

"Laura—" he tried again. Her eyes never left his.

"Not yet. Soon," she promised. She continued on, not touching, just holding his eyes with hers as she spoke. "You're uncircumcised. I was a bit shocked our first time. I've always just assumed most men were. She ran a finger up the length of him, eyes still on his. "You're beautiful." She smiled at the stunned look he was giving her. "Long. Longer than the length of the spread of my fingers, from the tip of my thumb to the tip of my pinkie." She touched him, demonstrating. Her eyes still on his face, she laughed huskily as she watched him pant, his eyes rolling to the back of his head at the feel of her hand on his pulsing erection. "Thick as well. My fingers don't even touch my thumb when I do this." She clasped her hand around his shaft, opening and closing her fingers several times in the way she knew drove him mad. His erection twitched hard in her hands, and he wobbled, locking his knees by some miracle before he hit the ground. "I love how heavy you are in my hands…" Her eyes held his as she leaned forward, to stroke her tongue from base to head, pulling back the foreskin and swirling her tongue around the tip before taking him in her mouth. She suckled briefly, ripping a moan from deep within his throat. She watched as his eyes grew dazed, his skin flushed. His fists clenched and unclenched at his sides. "You taste so good. I've never particularly cared to do this for another man," she suckled briefly again, "before you."

And in that moment, she took him out of the brimstone he'd been dwelling in since this had begun and tossed him straight into Dante's nine circles of hell.

"Your face, Laura," he said desperately. "I saw your face…" he panted, closing his eyes, the muscle in his jaw twitching. "Didn't see much past that… couldn't bloody well believe it… Oh god, Laura…"

"You can touch now, Remington," she relented, the first part of her point made.

His next actions shocked the hell out of her. Instead of burying his hands in her hair, encouraging her to take him back into her mouth, to finish what she'd started, his hands reached for her and tugged her to her feet. She'd no sooner stood prone, than he wrapped his arms around her, his lips finding hers, and he kissed her with a desperation that left her embracing him, her fingers burrowing in his hair. He swung her up in his arms, his mouth still lingering on hers and carried her to his room.

"Not here. In my bed," he gasped, as his lips briefly left hers only to claim them again. His tongue flicked against her lips for a taste of her, then his mouth departed again. "I need you in my bed, Laura." She nodded against the lips that sealed themselves back over hers, her fingers stroking his neck, his head beneath his hair. She drew him down to stretch over top of her when he lay her on the bed. Her hands stroked his back when he settled between her legs, his erection laying heavily against the aching bundle of nerves, enflaming her own need despite her clothing. She shivered at the sensation. He drew his fingers through her hair, then cradled her face in his hands.

"I won't share, Laura," his eyes burned white hot, flickering back and forth across her face. He dipped his head to rest his forehead against hers. " _Not you_. In person or image."

"I never asked you to," she reminded him, threading her fingers through his hair. "Not in word or deed." She nursed the hurt in her heart for a long second, then urged his head back to look at her. The injury reflected in her eyes was like a vise around his heart. _Bloody hell. Not angry, injured,_ he amended his assessment from earlier in the day.

"Laura—" She placed flattened palms on his shoulders and urged him to move off of her. She left him to stand next to the bed, kicking off her shoes then stripping off her pants and shirt, under his avid gaze. Climbing back into the bed, she stretched out beside him

"It's your turn, Mr. Steele."

Remington knew what she meant, even as he recognized she'd cast him straight back into the bowels of hell. But looking into those amber eyes and seeing the injury there, he could only nod. He cupped the side of her head with his hand, his thumb stroking her cheek.

"I was jealous." He found the admission easily made. It wasn't the first time he'd said such and likely wouldn't be the last. She nodded her head, but he couldn't help notice the look in her beautiful brown eyes remained.

"Why?" He closed his eyes, acknowledging he'd already known somewhere in his mind that she wouldn't make it that easy. Still, the question irritated him.

"Why do you think?" he asked, brows furrowing. He watched as she carefully blanked her face, shuttered her eyes in response to his tone. "What do you want me to say? That I never game a damn who else past paramours might be sleeping with, who had had them before me, who would after? That I wouldn't have given a damn if any one of them had appeared in that piece of smut? Well, I didn't and wouldn't have, on all counts. I made myself clear from the start I neither had nor wanted a claim on any of them."

She looked away from him, blowing out a soft breath, letting him know his words still had not hit the mark.

"What do you want me to say, Laura?" he asked quietly.

"I don't know," she answered quietly, refusing to look at him. He studied her carefully, then nodded his head. He pushed himself up to recline against the backboard of the bed, then reached for her hand.

"Come here, Laura," he requested. She turned her head to look at him, then allowed him to tug her onto his lap. "Do you honestly believe I could have mistaken her body for yours if I'd taken any time, at all, to look at it? It seems the lesson learned now becomes the lesson taught then, eh?"

"What do you mean by that?" she asked, he finally garnering her attention. He closed his eyes in answer.

"It's easy to forget sometimes, given your fearlessness in standing up to anyone, including myself, that you're just a little bit of a thing," he began, his hands stroked her bare waist before stilling, his thumbs laying against the sides, his hands circling around her back. "Your small waist that doesn't even span the width of my hands, making one wonder how it's possible that your figure is so lovely." His fingers traced from ribs to hips. "The way your body tapers in from ribs to waist before the gentle curve ending in your slim hips." Her small hands moved to rest on his shoulders as a shiver coursed through her at his touch. "Such a wonderfully sensitive waist," he murmured. He opened to eyes to look at her, and with great relief saw the light returning to her eyes.

"Go on," she encouraged. He held her eyes as he unsnapped her bra, then slipped one strap at a time down her arms, tossing it to the floor when she let it slide off her arms. Closing his eyes he continued.

"You breasts are sheer perfection, more than I'd ever dreamed they would be. Not large, instead fitting perfectly into the cup of my hand," his hands stroked from waist to breast, demonstrating. "There are times I believe these beauties were made for my hands alone." Remington hummed when Laura leaned forward to trail her lips across one of his shoulders, encouraging him to carry on. "You can't imagine my delight when I learned those glorious freckles of yours continued on until shortly after the swell of your breast begins …" his fingers infallibly traced where the dapples of color ended, "…here."

He briefly lost train of thought when Laura's mouth locked over the skin of his collarbone, suckling firmly. He groaned aloud and clutched at her hips, unable to prevent his hips from pressing upward, grinding his erection against her silk covered folds. He basked in the heady knowledge the she'd marked him as hers again.

"Keep going," she whispered. He took a deep breath and released it slowly, tamping down the need to take her then and there.

"Like the undertones of your skin, your nipples are pink and delightfully sensitive, rising up and hardening at only the slightest brush of my thumb across them," his hands left her hips to cup her breasts again. His thumbs brushed over the peaks, demonstrating. He smiled as the peaks protruded further and hardened immediately at the touch. Her back arched at the contact, grinding the apex of her legs against his shaft, drawing a moan from each of them. One of his hands moved to her back, urging her upwards, so he could draw a puckered peak into his mouth. He suckled softly, then gradually more firmly, until he felt her hands bury themselves in his hair, urging him to continue. He released the nipple from his mouth to turn his attention to the other, lavishing equal attention on it until he left her panting from his ministrations. Only then did he move on.

"The magnificent freckles that cover the top of your chest," his mouth trailed across her skin, "to your shoulder," he traced a shoulder with the tip of his tongue, "over your neck," she squirmed in his lap as he suckled at that place where neck met shoulder, "then your face." Her fingers left his hair, to feather along the skin of his neck and caress behind his ears as his lips touched chin then cheek then forehead, then descended to do the same on the other side of her face. A shiver skittered along his spine in response to her touch, and he stilled, dropping his head to her shoulder. "I can't think when you do that, Laura."

"I know." She laughed quietly, huskily, then moved to trail an open mouth down his neck before settled beneath his ear to suckle gentle there. Goosebumps pranced across his skin. He moaned deep in his throat, then wrapped his arms around her and turned to lay her on her back. His fingers hooked around the waistband of her panties and skimmed them down her legs. Escaping her talented mouth, he kneeled between her legs. Holding her eyes with his, he lifted a leg from the bed.

"These gorgeous legs of yours," a flattened hand swept over the length of her leg, "I've watched for years, aching for the day I'd be allowed to touch them, to feel them wrapped around me as we made love. The shapely calves," he stroked it, "and firm thighs. I'd know these legs anywhere. I feel as though I've spent a lifetime memorizing them." He turned his head and fastened his lips over the skin on the inside of her knee, pulling it gently into his mouth. Releasing it from her mouth, he nibbled lightly at the same spot, smiling as he watched her body quiver in response.

"Remington…" she drew out his name on a moan, enflaming his own desire. He couldn't imagine a time when hearing his name cross her lips wouldn't fill him with heady pleasure. Laying her leg back down on the bed, his hands parted her legs further. His lips trailed up the inside of her thigh, his fingers parting the wet folds of flesh between her legs a mere second before his mouth settled there. Her hips bucked beneath him from the sensation.

"Laura," he mumbled, his hot breath against the sensitive bundle of nerves made her entire body twitch. She buried her hands in his hair, begging him silently to continue. He eagerly lapped at her, reveling in her taste, before slipping two fingers inside of her. Bending the tips slightly forward, he quickly established a rhythm that left her back arching off the bed and her thighs clamping against either side of his head. "Like you me, babe, I love the taste of you." As if it to prove it, his mouth returned to her, pushing her back up the precipice, only stopping when he saw her stomach muscles tightening promising she was near her release again.

"Now, Mr. Steele," she groaned, her hands pressing against the back of his head, urging him upwards.

She drew his head downwards, until his lips covered hers. She fed on his mouth, the taste of herself on him, as he positioned himself at her entrance, and taking at her word, pressed forward into her tight sheath. She tilted her hips for him. Withdrawing almost completely, he pushed further inwards, gasping as the tension in her internal muscles released and he sank into her to the hilt. With a quiet groan of pure pleasure, she wrapped her legs around his hips as her fingers raked down his chest. She broke her mouth free of his, panting heavily as he began to move in a steady rhythm. Instinctively, her hips moved of their own accord. The threatening climax built, then crested. His arm encircled her back, lifting her hips further from the bed. The additional contact saw her legs slipping down over the back of his thighs, as she splintered apart. He pumped his hips, driving hard and deep inside of her, prolonging her climax, sustaining the rhythm until she dropped limply the bed.

He allowed the weight of his body to relax atop of her, and, still buried inside of her, his lips claimed hers. His lips fairly worshipped hers, his tongue flicking against them teasingly until she opened to him on a hum. He groaned deep in his throat as their tongues tangled and stroked. When her arms reached around him so her fingers could feather down the length of his back, he ended the kiss and rested his lips next to her ear.

"Roll over, babe." He whispered the request against her ear, as he eased out of her body.

Laura turned over to lay on her stomach, parting her legs and lifting her hips in invitation. His lips grazed her bottom, savoring the twitch of her lovely bum in response to his touch. After giving a cheek a playful nip, drawing a languid moan from her, Remington once more positioned himself at her entrance, and slid back into her swollen sheath with ease. Grasping her hips, he drew her to her knees. Wanting to feel her shatter with him this time and knowing she'd need a little help in this position, he reached around her and buried his fingers in her wet folds, locating that bundle of nerves and establishing a rhythm that matched the long thrusts of his shaft within her. She pressed flattened palms against the headboard and pushed backwards into him, alternately circling her hips and grinding against him. Shortly, they were both panting as they rocketed towards the precipice. Leaning further over her, he nibbled and nipped at the back of her neck, before locking his mouth and suckling deeply. She cried out, her entire body quaking at the force of her climax. Her inner muscles clenched down hard around his thickened erection, drawing a fierce moan from him. With a final thrust inward, he stilled, his body shaking as her body milked his pulsating shaft.

"My God, Laura," he rasped against her shoulder. He pressed a trail of kisses over her back before gently extracting himself from her. He collapsed onto his back on the bed, drawing her to him, until her head rested against that place under his shoulder and half of her sprawled across his body.

Exhausted and sated they stroked one another wherever their hands could make contact, and very shortly fell asleep. In the final moments before they surrendered to their dreams, she heard him whisper, "You're mine, Laura."

It vaguely occurred to her she should be irritated, as no one would ever own Laura Holt. Instead, she fell asleep with a smile of contentment dancing on her lips.


	6. Chapter 6: Stay

Chapter 6: Stay

Laura felt Remington stir shortly before midnight. She'd awakened nearly a half hour before. As she'd turned to her side to look at the clock, he'd automatically followed in her wake, spooning around her backside and drawing her tight against him. A war within her had immediately broken out, the responsible side of her that demanded she get dressed and leave battling against the emotional side which begged she relax her rules and just stay here in his arms. It had been that way since the first night they'd made love on a weeknight and was one of the many reasons she looked forward to the weekends when there was no argument with herself and she could simply enjoy how… right… it felt sleeping with their bodies entwined in some manner or other.

She settled in with her thoughts, not wanting to wake him quite yet, knowing when he woke it would be time to say goodbye for the evening. She'd come here this evening determined to make a couple of points, and hadn't even realized how pressing the need was for her to know Remington hadn't mistaken the other woman's body for her own. She'd had every intention of stoking the fires between them, then storming out of his flat in righteous indignation with a notation over her shoulder that he should have known she'd never engage in boudoir photography let alone pornography. Instead, she'd found she was consumed by the need to know he was as intimately familiar with the details of her body as she was his.

Now, she laughed shortly and rolled her eyes at herself. The man could devote an entire evening to simply touching her, intent on knowing every inch of her and of driving her to find her pleasure time after time while denying his own. Several times, like this evening, it had been her that called a halt to his endless explorations, her body aching to feel his hardened length within her. After years of not crossing that line, both of them were impelled to touch, memorize the landscape of each other's bodies.

Her brows drew together as she realized she'd never really even touched on the other concerns that had been given birth by the entire _Bedside Babes_ debacle: his believing she would ever reduce herself to promoting only her flesh and her concern he thought she'd hide behind something as impersonal as a photograph rather than willingly fulfill any fantasies he might have. Absently, she stroked the arm wrapped around her waist and felt him stir behind her.

The bed dipped slightly as Remington pushed up on an elbow so that he could press a string of kisses across a bare shoulder. "How long have you been awake," he asked quietly, his breath warming her skin. She reached behind her to thread her fingers through his hair.

"Not very long." Laura's quiet sigh was not lost on him. Laying back down, he spooned his body to hers, gathering her close, having recently learned conversations like the one he suspected they were about to have were done better in near proximity.

"What is it, Laura?" _How is he can know me so well that he knows when I have something on my mind without a word spoken but not well enough to know I'd never do what he'd believed I'd done?_ she asked herself again.

"I thought you knew me better than that," she forced the words past her lips. Guilt gave him a swift kick in the shin.

"Ah, Laura, it's not easy to explain as you might believe it to be," he answered, his hand gliding up and down her arm.

"Try. I need to understand." His hand found hers and he weaved their fingers together while he nodded.

"I was stunned at first. Angry even. Can you imagine your own reaction had the FBI arrived in your office and dropped a publication such as that on _your_ desk, only to open it to the centerfold and find my face looking up at you?"

"Go on," were the only words she spoke.

"I considered that it was far outside of the person I knew you to be to do such a thing as that, but it wouldn't be the first time in recent months that you'd done something in opposition to who I know you to be." He let out a short puff of air and waited for the explosion. She shocked the hell out of him again when she let go of his hand and wriggled around to face him.

"Such as?" He studied her face carefully, finding no anger only perplexed curiosity.

"Leaving me for…" he cleared his throat before the gaffe could be completed and left the remainder of that thought unsaid as he watched guilt slash across her face and cloud her eyes. "Coming to London to find me. Finally allowing us to have this," his hand caressed her arm from shoulder to elbow. "Lying to me about your association with Veenhoff and whether he'd ever photographed you. Each of these things was out of character for you. I couldn't be certain that photograph wasn't just one more thing."

"I've spent my entire life battling against being seen for what I am instead of what I am capable of, Mr. Steele," she reminded him.

"As you've battled giving yourself over to me… us… for three years," he pointed out. He blew out a frustrated breath. "Look, Laura, I'm not saying the belief was rational. I'm not denying my reaction was not colored a great deal by the thought of other men seeing you, fantasizing about you. I meant what I said earlier, although I thought I'd made it clear in London. I _won't_ share you. I can't. _Not you_. Even if it is just a sodding picture."

She thought about what he said. He wasn't wrong about her reaction, had the shoe been on the other foot, recognizing she, herself, would have jumped to the obvious conclusion. She wouldn't have gone straight to jealousy as he had, though she would have arrived there eventually she was sure, but would have instead assumed the worst of him and would have been furious. At first, she'd have looked to his past actions as cause to refute or confirm what she was looking at before her. Once more, his argument held water: in recent months, she had made many a decision that may have called into question if this was just another aberration of her normally predictable behavior. Then there was the obvious. If she refused to think about how many women knew him as she now did, how would she feel believing he'd bared all for the world to see? The idea of other women seeing him, fantasizing about him, made her stomach roll.

Laura held silent for long enough that Remington began to fear it was now that she'd once again put distance between them. He palmed her cheek with his hand.

"Laura, are we okay?" he asked, his contrition and nervousness clear in his voice. Her brown eyes flickered to meet his blue and seeing his fears echoed in his eyes, she raked her fingers through his hair before leaning in to touch her lips to his.

"We're fine," she assured him. "Thank you."

"For what?" he inquired, baffled.

"For being honest with me, for telling me what I needed to know." She kissed him again, before leaving his arms and bed to get dressed.

While Laura gathered up her clothes, Remington retrieved a robe from the closet and pulled it on, his eyes riveted on her as she slipped into her panties then drew on her shirt. He walked up behind her and wrapped an arm around her waist. Her hand automatically stroked down his forearm, before her hand rested atop his and she leaned her head back against his shoulder. Lifting her hair away from her neck, he nuzzled his face against it before brushing a kiss over the sensitive skin.

"Stay." The one word held a host of emotion. She closed her eyes and lifted her arm to caress his cheek. She battled for long seconds with the decision, logical and emotional sides at war.

"I can't," she said with regret.

"Lau-ra," his voice held a plea that left one of them grimacing as he'd revealed too much, the other scrunching her face in deep remorse. It took as much willpower to stand strong, as it had taken him the nerve to ask.

"We have an agreement." She turned to look at him, he feeling somewhat better at seeing the regret pooled within the depths of her brown eyes. "I'm sorry."

He sat down heavily on the side of the bed, watching as she finished dressing. He escorted her to the front door, where she shoved her unworn bra into her clutch. Pressing up onto her toes, she kissed him.

"I'll see you tomorrow at the office."

Stepping back and shoving his hands into the pocket of his robe, he could only watch as she left, wishing with all he was it was otherwise. With a deep sigh and recognizing sleep would not come anytime soon, Remington retired to his bedroom. Reclining against the backboard of the bed, he reached into his bedside table and pulled out the sketchpad and pencils he'd purchased upon his return from London and began to draw. It was nearing dawn when he returned the items to his bedside table and, shedding the robe he stretched out on his bed. Laura's scent both on the bed and his body, left him drifting off to sleep wishing she were near.

* * *

On Friday morning, Laura sat at her desk, diligently working through the stack of files in front of her. Midway through the stack, she opened a file, frowning at the single, folded sheet of paper there. Opening it, a stunned look crossed her face and she leaned back in her chair to consider it at length. After several minutes had passed, she shook her head and laughed softly before nibbling at her lower lip.

"Will you ever cease to amaze me, Mr. Steele?" she quietly mused aloud.

In her hand, she held a sketch of her sleeping nude in what was clearly his bed. Somehow, he'd managed to capture every nuance of her body, each freckle, even the peaceful, sated smile playing on her lips. She'd been held enraptured not only by the skill evident in the drawing but the utter contentment which showed in every line of her body as she slept near him.

"What am I going to do with you?" she asked the air, when her eyes fell on the writing in the lower corner.

He'd entitled the portrait "For My Eyes Only" and had signed it with a single initial – 'R'.


End file.
